But it is. There’s nothing like arriving at your destination, opening your suitcase and finding out your drunk self totally forgot socks came in pairs. Or that drunk–you thought a collection of plaid shirts with striped pants was a … OK, that’s hyperbole, but you get the idea.

Packing when you’re drunk creates little magical surprises for you on the other end of the trip.

Either I like packing while drunk or I hate traveling so much that I drown my sorrows. Or maybe its both. I’m never really sure if its both. I guess that’s because I’m normally drunk while packing, and traveling, and pondering which I hate more — but that’s a shitty blog intro don’t you think?

So yeah, we’re headed back to the United States in a few short hours. The flightis officially less than 24 hours away and I can’t tell you how excited I am to become reacquainted with my love-hate relationship with flying.

From the agony of security, the absolute joy of customs and the encouraging fact that every airport has a bar open somewhere no matter the time or … oh wait, that’s not true in America.

I just love cross-Atlantic flights.

From the weird antiseptic smell of the international lounge in Frankfurt, to the germ-filled aluminum flying tube, to the unprepared customs pods on the east coast awaiting our flight, I am fucking pumped. By pumped, I of course mean I need another drink, which I think explains why – as the departure clocks ticks away – I‘m still staring at unpacked bags.

This is really a thing? (Photo credit: nedrichards)

I’ve had the opportunity to fly a lot for work. A couple of years agoI flew so often that in just a few short weeks I had racked up more frequent flyer miles crossing the “pond” than any sane person ever could have. It was literally a week in the states, a week back in Germany, two weeks in the states, a week in Germany … you get the idea. I racked up tons of miles back then. Most of them are gone now, but I was able to parlay the last few measly ones into an upgrade for my wife and me on this flight. Barring another gig that requires frequent cross-Atlantic hopping, it may very well be our last.

She doesn’t fly much. When she does it’s always with me, on vacation and short. She doesn’t understand what a pure and divine blessing this upgrade is. First-world problems I know, but fuck you I’m writing this you’re not.